A pair of sportives; on solitude

The rugby World Cup has been playing in the background these last few weeks - of course for some people it is very much in the foreground.  The football season must also have started, as I made the mistake of cycling past the City ground last Saturday just as the crowds were getting some last minute refreshment to sustain them through the next couple of hours.  The tiny Spanish bar had a swarm of red shirts outside that blocked the pavement and quite a lot of the road, and the supporters' public rejection of the Green Cross Code forced me to cycle with care.
I stepped into the bike shop, and entered an island of cycling adrift in a sea of football.  The staff were watching a replay of the world championship from the previous week and they wanted to show me how all the riders were so pleased for Peter Sagan that they all came over and slapped him on the back and threw their arms round him.  I suggested that this was one of the great things about endurance sports; despite the competition everyone appreciates each other's skills and efforts.
Some people just seem to be team people, others prefer lone sports - that definitely applies to me.  I just don't enjoy the pressure of team sports, or understand the partisan nature of going out in a group to watch others play.

The Sunday before I had set the alarm for an un-Sabbath-like hour, thrown the bike in the boot and picked up Heidi for the Bristol 100 mile bike ride.  It was freezing when we got there and we danced around getting ready, shivering and laughing, itching to get riding in order to generate some warmth.  There were plenty of riders around us as we rolled under the gantry and onto the road; still no warmer. The sun was low, causing the riders in front to be silhouetted in metallic greys; breath misting across the road.  The peace of the early morning was framed by the gentle rolling of the tyres, with the occasional gear change or comment between riders causing a counterpoint to the shared silence.
As the hours spread out across the day, Heidi and I chatted to each other and occasionally to other riders.  The sun slowly stripped the chill out of the day, and in the warmth we bowled along quite happily, the miles clicking off.  A good number of stops punctuated the ride, with Heidi's parents meeting us twice, the first time to offer sandwiches and mugs of tea filled from a thermos.  We stood in a poky little layby, roll in one hand mug in the other, as riders came past, waving.
The day proceeded in this way, chatting, enjoying the scenery, connecting with some of the other riders, until we rolled into Blaise and the finish.
A celebratory hug and tub of ice cream, and we flopped onto the grass to watch the other riders freewheel across the line or walk to the car park in that bent style cyclists have.  Families filled the park - children, dogs, queues for refreshment, the  slightly damp ground offering a base for just watching people go by.

The following Sunday brought another 100 mile ride - some similarities some differences.  The morning was every bit as cool as the week before; this time the morning clung onto the low temperature by shrouding us in fog.  There were far fewer riders, only 35 for the 100 mile ride, and we all started together, riding through that strange muffled atmosphere that fog brings.

 The first climb from Priston up into the Mendips started the inevitable distancing of riders, and by Cheddar, I was on my own.
And there I was, a solo rider - barely in an event.  One rider overtook me in Wells and another two joined me at Evercreech only to disappear after the King Alfred's Tower food stop.  That was at forty miles, so the next sixty were spent almost entirely on my own.  Signs guided the way as long as I kept my eyes open for them, and I cruised through villages and countryside unknown to me but welcoming further exploration one day.
Up over Salisbury Plain, and I saw three riders in the distance but they were so far ahead I couldn't catch them - actually they weren't in the event, so I couldn't have stayed with them.
Without company my attention was drawn to the mileometer and the painfully slow increase in completed miles.  Without anything else to distract me this developed into an obsession, until I had to ration my glances.
The last twenty miles were an uncomfortable grind with increasingly tired legs - not dramatically so, but without stimulation tiredness became a focal point.  I rolled into the ride HQ, third finisher, an hour faster than last week although I suspect still feeling the effects of the previous ride.

What do you do when you get home from an event like that?  There must surely be an air of exultation and the need to chatter about the day.  But what if there is nobody there to share it with?  I was grateful to recieve Heidi's text asking how it went, it gave me the opportunity to feed back at least a tiny part of the day.  Karin would always ask me how it went - as she got more ill she locked into the one functional phrase, 'well, how was that?' for all my little adventures.

But these events couldn't be closed.  The sealing lid couldn't be placed on the day - I finally understood why people stand around talking after a ride or a run; they need to talk the day out of themselves. The week before I had suddenly felt the need to buy a bottle of prosecco and toast Karin; she would have been an integral part of the ride just by being the recipient of a recounting of the day's exploits.  The second ride found me doing the same thing, missing her.
I started to recognise the social nature of solo events; that odd contradiction showing that we humans need both solitude and company.  We spin between the two.  And, of course, I now realise that other people who may not even have attended the day's events are an integral part of it as vicarious recipients of an experience.  Even lone sportsmen need people.

Thanks to  Bike Events and Somer Valley CC for the sportives, and Nic Meadows for the photos